Soon chimed the clock. And scarcely had it ceased,
Than tolled the chapel bell,
As though for some long-suffering soul released,
Its slow funereal knell,
And on its ebon wings the rising gale
Swept landward from the sea,
And mingled with the chapel bell's long wail
Its own sad symphony.

We found him lying lifeless, as he said,
Before the altar, prone,
Nor laid our sinful hands upon the dead,
But left him there alone,
And launched our frail canoe upon the tide,
Not marvelling to behold
Before our prow the billows fall aside,
Like the Red Sea of old.

On every hand the screaming waters flung
Their great, white arms on high,
And over all the thundering storm-clouds hung
And battled in the sky.
Yet fearless we sailed on, until when day
Broke, panting, through the night,
The fertile Isle aux Coudres before us lay,
Its beach with breakers white.

And there, upon that tempest-beaten strand,
Waiting, Pere Compain stood
And beckoned to us with uplifted hand